In his 1954 novel Lord of the Flies, William Golding describes what happens when the worst of human nature comes to a tiny island paradise. Rather than work together, a group of people devolves into little better than animals, descending into a savagery that undoes any attempts at civility.

And so it could have been here on the island of St. Martin, where two competing world powers, France and the Netherlands, each established a colony. But while the history of this, the world’s smallest divided landmass, has its share of conflict, the overarching theme isn’t one of savagery, or even necessarily of intense rivalry. It is instead one of coexistence. And that makes it a story worth telling in today’s world where that is ever more rare.

In 1633, the Spanish conquered the island of St. Martin, displacing the tiny Dutch and French colonies that had taken root in the southern and northern portions of the island, respectively. When they left in 1648, the Dutch and French moved back in, eager once again to mine the salt that gave their colonies their starts. (Click here to read more about the salt and sugar industries in Sint Maarten and Saint-Martin.)

A question remained of how to demarcate boundaries between these two European powers and their colonies. The island is only 37 square miles, and so with even small populations, staying completely off each other’s radar was probably unlikely. In truth, nobody seems to know exactly why the border was drawn where it was (and in actuality the border wasn’t even 100% finalized until 2023!). But there is a legend that, while almost certainly false, makes for a fun story.

The Dutch and French each chose a man to act as their champion. These champions began at Oyster Bay on the eastern side of the island. The Dutch man would walk south and the French man would walk north, and each would circumnavigate the island. Where they met would mark the border on the other side, and a line would be drawn from here at the starting point. Well, according to the legend, it was a hot day, and each man brought with him a beverage to help quench his thirst. The French man drank wine as he made his way around the northern side of St. Martin. The Dutch man drank gin as he walked the southern side. And, gin being significantly stronger, he walked slower, perhaps even stopping for a nap. Hence the French side ended up being the larger of the two sides. (There is a Dutch version that says the French man cheated, not walking the coastline but taking a route across some of the small peninsulas. I think they are just sore losers.)

Regardless of how the boundary was actually chosen, 1648 marks the official recognition of the colonies of Sint Maarten and Saint-Martin of each other, with a treaty, the Treaty of Concordia, signed on March 23 to delineate the rights of the new divided island. The nine articles of the treaty are much of what one would expect: territories are demarcated, eternal friendship is declared, cooperation against foreign invasion is outlined.

But it goes a bit beyond that. Dutch and French colonists are given the right to move between the sides – even permanently if they desire – as long as they settle debts beforehand. Criminals running across the border will not be offered refuge. And the resources of the island, including the precious salt, will be common property between the two.

For a Europe in a constant state of war with ever shifting sets of alliances, the Treaty of Concordia is a rather remarkable and unique document. Coexistence is not something that seemed to be an end goal of many conflict-ending treaties, which rather focused on indemnities or subservience, and in any event didn’t last.

This isn’t to say that a divided Sint Maarten and Saint-Martin always had an easy go of it, or even always honored the treaty. At various points, each side “conquered” the other, although such campaigns were typically more of an intimidation than a bloody battle sort. After all, garrisons at the respective forts were well under 100 soldiers. (Click here to read more about the colonial history of the island from both sides.) And the status quo was always returned to.

In 1948, a monument was erected along the border (just north of the Simpson Bay Causeway, which makes it a super easy stop for anyone going to/from the airport, let alone those driving between Philipsburg and Marigot up the west side of the island) to commemorate the 300th anniversary of the Treaty of Concordia. And a plaque marks the words of the French dignitary present for the occasion, with his glowing attenuations to the steadfastness by which both sides largely stuck to the agreement for centuries.

Here in 2025, St. Martin remains an island divided, at least on paper. There is a border, based on those original 1648 lines, but signage is the only border guard. (The exception to this occurred during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, where the border was actually closed, with different rules for each side. Apparently in practice people crossed regularly, but it wasn’t officially allowed.)

The more fascinating aspect, however, is that each side has a different relationship to its home country. In Saint-Martin, you are in France. The currency is the Euro, license plates are EU, and locals vote for representatives in France’s parliament. In Sint Maarten, you are in an autonomous constituent country of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. While residents hold Dutch passports, and foreign policy decisions are made in the Netherlands, you are not in the EU. The currency is officially the guilder, although since it is pegged to the US dollar at 1.8 to 1, I did not need any, or even see any while on the island, and my efforts to obtain some for my collection failed. (I did not go to a bank, but did not meet a single local with any to swap.) Adding even more confusion, but sort of in a fun way, Sint Maarten uses US-style electrical outlets while Saint-Martin is on a European one.

Residents of St. Martin today enjoy many of the same privileges as outlined in 1648. Freedom of movement is practiced. Resources are shared for the betterment of all. But culture still has some differences, making an exploration of this tiny island unique. (One of the coolest experiences one can have is to wake up in Sint Maarten in the Kingdom of the Netherlands, drive to Saint-Martin in France, and take a ferry for a half hour to Anguilla, a British overseas territory. You can use all your language skills, spend all your currencies, and argue what qualifies as a country.)

But the lesson from this, the world’s smallest divided landmass, is more than just occupying a unique political place in a fascinatingly complex world. Sint Maarten and Saint-Martin are examples of what can happen when coexistence is prioritized over the natural tendency of people to divide themselves into “us” and “other.” The successful development of this tiny island into one of the Caribbean’s premier destinations is not in spite of the challenges of it being binational; it is because of the ability of generations of leaders and visionaries to look past them and continue in the spirit of an obscure treaty between two tiny colonial populations.

Sint Maarten and Saint-Martin represent what is possible when two peoples work together, and that is a story more important and more needed than any tale of war and conflict in this strange world we live in.

As with every article in this series on Sint Maarten and Saint-Martin, I have to thank Visit St. Maarten/St. Martin for arranging for me to come to your beautiful island. It was an incredible experience, one I hope every reader is lucky enough to have one day.

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